


Atonement

by mrs_d



Series: After The War [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Future Fic, M/M, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-06-10 00:33:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6930724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrs_d/pseuds/mrs_d
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Barnes has protected him, sure, he's saved Sam’s life, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t try to take it, too. And maybe Sam saved him, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t try to stop him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Atonement

Sam knows it’s ridiculous.

It’s been two years. HYDRA’s programming is all but gone, and Barnes is better, lighter. He smiles, talks, laughs, even, and he’s got a beautiful laugh when he lets it out — it bubbles up, just like a fountain, and Sam can practically hear its sunlit reflection.

Barnes has apologized. To Sam, several times. To Steve, T’Challa, Natasha, Sharon, Peter, Rhodey, Vision. Even Tony, though Tony didn’t want to hear it, and only Natasha and Rhodey could convince him to stay in the room long enough for Barnes to speak his piece.

He’s been going to at least a couple different shrinks, too, a feat that Sam wishes Steve would learn from. Barnes takes medication every night to help him sleep, and he carries a pill bottle in his pocket every time he’s in public, in case the panic creeps up on him. He even goes to church — Steve says he goes to confession Wednesday and Saturday evenings, and Mass on Sundays, just like he used to when they were kids. Barnes always seems freer afterwards, like he’s been comforted by the familiar rituals.

Sam knows Barnes is trying, and he’s happy for him, impressed by his progress, and wishes him all the best. And it’s not like Sam’s never been in a room with a traumatized veteran who could just as soon kill him as talk to him. So he knows that it’s ridiculous that he continues to think of the guy as Barnes, even though he would rather be called Bucky. Sam knows it’s absurd that he feels the need to lock the bedroom door every night that Steve’s away. Sam knows it’s crazy that he can’t talk to Barnes, can’t look at him, can’t even joke around with him when they’re outside a combat situation.

And he knows that it hurts Steve, too. Sam can see the flash of pain in his eyes, can hear it in his voice, can taste it on his lips, and feel it in the touch of his hands. Sam knows that Steve would give anything to have his partner and his best friend feel safe around each other when they don’t have a common enemy. Steve wants them on the same side, at his side, in life as well as in battle.

But Sam can’t give him that.

Because Barnes has protected him, sure, he's saved Sam’s life, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t try to take it, too. And maybe Sam saved him, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t try to stop him.

Every time Barnes heads down the hallway behind him, Sam thinks about crashing back to the helicarrier, his wings sharply severed, watching Steve fall. If it’s raining, and Barnes grabs an umbrella from the hook by the door, Sam’s face twitches with the memory of Barnes’ implacable grip on his jaw right before he hit the enforced wall of that empty, useless cell.

And if Sam accidentally startles Barnes when he’s reading in the front room, he can see, all too clearly, Barnes leaping out of the way when Sam shot at him. When he asks Barnes to pass the potatoes, all Sam can hear is his own voice, telling Steve that Barnes has to be stopped, that he isn’t the kind of guy you save.

The bruises and scars may have faded, but Sam can’t help remembering that he couldn’t stop Barnes, that he didn’t stop trying to.

 _Give it time_ , Steve pleads, at the end of every mission when Sam’s guilt and fear come creeping back, and he and Barnes put as much distance between each other as possible.

But it’s been two years, and it’s not getting better.


End file.
